Warnings: Angst, Dark!fic, Spoilers hinted at through 'A Good Man Goes to War'
A/N: Written for eleven_pond's Flash Prompt: Round One. Once again dark and overly thinky. Sorry about that (again) - totally Eleven's fault! Tis un'beta'd (to an extent) to get it in on time (as usual). For all its faults, I do hope you enjoy! Big thanks to stjra for all of her cheerleading again - always there with the cookies! You're the best, bb!
Disclaimer(s): I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about...
He was here because he couldn't find his red bowtie - well, the right red bowtie. Not the satiny one, but the more velveteen crimsony one. Usually it was in...well, what passed for his room, but all he could find was the navy blue or black one and it made him feel -
Well, it reflected his mood of late, which wasn't what he wanted (thus the hunt for his red bowtie) and this was the last place he could think of that it could be. He knew the TARDIS was feeling melancholy as well - which might be why he kept finding the wrong colors in his personal wardrobe in his room - but he wanted to be himselfagain and only the velvety reddish-purple tie would do.
He marched straight to the back of the Wardrobe Room, past his old multi-colored scarf (complete with heavy brown peacoat); past his velvet smoking jacket with ruffled collar; past his yellow-checked trousers to the wooden mahogany monster at the very back of the rather largish room, knowing if the Old Girl was going to hide it anywhere, it would be there.
He gave the old brass knobs a yank with a bit more force than necessary, disgruntled that the TARDIS would put him through all this for the sake of some convoluted point that only she could grasp.
(Never mind he was tearing through all his clothes for one scrap of cloth - tis the principal of the thing after all.)
He saw a flash of red and reached for it, knocking aside a couple of other articles of clothing without really realising it. They slithered off their hangers to the floor as he gripped the edge of his old patchwork coat, mild disappointment fluttering within as his fingers brushed the fabric; the lining too coarse and material too big and colorful for what he was searching for.
"Where is it?" He muttered to no one and himself at the same time. He glanced at the floor, automatically scanning the mess he made to see if the piece he sought had fallen amongst the crumpled clutch of clothing at his feet.
He froze when he saw white sleeves, a short black skirt and a black vest with a white checkered pattern on the lapels and pockets.
"And what sort of job's a kissogram?"
"I go to parties and I... kiss people...with outfits. It's a laugh!"
"You were a little girl five minutes ago..." He whispered blankly, eyes unseeing as he snatched the outfit off the floor, feet moving before he could register he was walking. He practically raced out of the Wardrobe Room, hearts stuttering as he tried to breathe around the sudden lump in his throat.
"Sentimental, silly old man," he gasped to himself, legs and feet ignoring any commands to stop as he hurried to the library (the one with the swimming pool) taking the twists and turns of the corridors without thought or notice for anything that might be in his way.
There was no one around to see (hadn't been for awhile) as he curled up in his thinking chair, the worn leather better suited for a man one foot shorter and quite a few pounds heavier; but like a lot of things in his long life, he couldn't stop the urge to sit there. There were a lot of things he couldn't stop and a lot of old habits he stubbornly refused to break.
"Little girl...Amelia," He muttered, swiping at the sting that blurred his vision and made breathing and thinking so difficult. He was an old man, he got emotional easily - it was nothing but a stupid outfit, just a stupid scrap of tooled fabric. There was nothing to be upset over, except -
Why wasn't it in Amy and Rory's room, where it belonged?
Usually, the Wardrobe Room was only used by companions when they needed to blend in; the Wardrobe Room also stored their clothes when they were gone, kept the memories for him to walk amongst when he was feeling...nostalgic.
So why did he feel that now(amongst other things he wasn't going to dwell on)?
Sure, Amy Pond's kissogram days were long over - she was a married woman with...
He tried to exhale past that next thought, but it refused to let go. Just as he refused to let go of the little girl who grew up to wear this ridiculous get-up. Just as he refused to let go of the laughing, shining soul who joined him on his adventures both before and after her wedding night -
To her great regret (now) he was sure.
Was she gone from him now? Did she truly leave him?
You left her first...again and again and -
He didn't know how long he sat there, curled in his chair, holding Amy's...suit - but it was a long time. When he finally stood up, his bones creaked every one of their long years, his mind tired; feet retracing their steps to the Wardrobe Room.
He didn't really remember hanging it back up (ever so carefully) or closing the stiff wooden doors (also carefully) or leaving the room (on quiet, guilty feet). Both the mad dash through the corridors and the long walk back were a blur of snap-shot quality moments that he didn't want to recall any time soon.
He found his red bowtie hanging on a brass rail behind his chair in the console room, shiny and perfect and just what he had been looking for (minutes?hours?weeks?) not too long ago - but he didn't have the strength to put it on.
And he never got brave enough to look for that possibly missing room amongst the corridors - and it was even longer before he ever thought of the Wardrobe Room and the memory it held so dear behind dark mahogany doors.
END